Remains
by moonlighten
Summary: 1745: Scotland and France meet on a battlefield for the first time since Scotland joined the union. (Past Scotland/France.) One-shot, complete. Part 11 of the Feel the Fear series.


**11th May, 1745; near Tournai, Austrian Netherlands**

-  
>"Do you intend on firing soon, <em>Écosse<em>?" When France smiles, the split in his top lip widens even further, drenching one of his eye teeth in fresh blood. "I'm growing tired of staring down your gun."

France's own musket lies in the mud several feet away, where he'd hurled it in what Scotland could only describe as a fit of pique when it jammed. His right hand rests on the pommel of the sword hanging at his hip, but his fingers are splayed wide; loose and relaxed. He has made no move to unsheathe it.

"Your shoulder must be growing tired, too," he says, moving closer. Close enough that Scotland can smell the smoke and sweat that has soaked into the heavy wool of his white coat. Clean sweat, there is no tang of fear in it.

The ache in Scotland's arms has already begun to spread down through his body, wrapping in tight bands around his chest. But his muscles still hold steady, his aim is still true. "Not that I've noticed," he says.

"I remember that you once gutted me like a fish." France's voice is low, its cadences conversational, as though they're seated together in England's parlour sharing tea and small talk instead of standing on a battlefield. As though the air isn't ringing with gunfire and the dying screams of men and horses. "Cut me from navel to sternum, and covered yourself in so much of my blood that it soaked you through to the skin. This will be far less messy, I imagine."

"You asked me to do that." Rather petulantly, Scotland recalls. France had never liked that he didn't attack at full strength whenever they sparred together, believed it meant that Scotland considered him weak. "Said that you wanted to see how strong I really was, because I always held myself back when we fought."

All it had proved was that Scotland was more skilled with a sword, and that France's pain sickened him more than his own. Both things he was already aware of, he hadn't needed a demonstration.

He has never thought France was weak.

"I was right then, wasn't I? And apparently, you still do, even when you're making war on me in your brother's name."

"Our name," Scotland corrects him, because he feels the distinction is important.

England had wanted Scotland to remain in London when he and Wales set sail for the continent, because he understands what their people do not. Treaties and declarations and even fucking unions are human things and they bind their nations only in human ways. The king and their commanders think their hearts are made from ink and paper, too, and can be rewritten just as easily, but they are not.

Scotland would die a thousand deaths for his new country, and gladly so, but no matter how loudly they might bay for his blood, he will never want to hurt France.

He'd do it if he had to, but he'll never _want_ to. England would have blown France's head from his shoulders long since. Wales might have regretted being put in Scotland's position, but he wouldn't have hesitated.

"Of course," France purrs, stepping forward again until the muzzle of Scotland's musket presses against his breastbone, directly over his heart. "Just think of the good you could do for your men's morale by defeating me. You might turn the tide of this battle."

"I doubt that," Scotland says. "Besides, I unhorsed you, disarmed you, and now I have you at my mercy. You're already defeated, _An Fhraing_. Dragging your broken body in front of my soldiers won't make that any truer."

It's been a long time since their kind was instrumental in winning any war. Theirs is a drama played out on the periphery, and he's certain their people prefer it that way. This world belongs to them, now, and more so each and every year. They take strength from their nations fighting at their sides, but they no longer rely on it.

He slips his finger away from the musket's trigger.

France laughs harshly when he sees the movement. "You're a ridiculous man, _Écosse_. You always have been."

His mouth twists into a sneer and there's something cold about his eyes; something that looks a little like hatred. Scotland has seen that same look several times since he stopped capitulating to France's sporadic romantic advances entirely. Now, as before, it makes him wonder if France even remembers that they had ever had any warmer feelings for one another at all.

As Scotland is apparently incapable of forgetting, he lowers his gun and begins to walk away from France.

He takes two strides before something strikes him hard enough at the base of his skull that he can hear the bone there shatter, sharp as a whip crack. The pain is so unexpected and intense that it drives him to his knees. He doesn't have time to balance himself before France's boot lands in the small of his back, and he's sent sprawling.

He hits the ground chin first, and his teeth slice neatly through his tongue, filling his mouth with blood and forcing out the air. It feels as though he's drowning. He can't quite seem to catch his breath.

France presses his weight against Scotland's back, forcing him deeper into the mud, and the blade of a knife against the thin skin just below his jaw.

"Do you think I'll hold back?" he says, lips brushing the shell of Scotland's ear in a parody of a kiss. "Do you think I'll stay my hand?"

Once, Scotland might have believed so, but he'd been no more than a boy then. Whatever France might think, he isn't foolish enough to still harbour _all_ of his old hopes for them.

"No," he says, as the needle-sharp tip of France's knife pierces his skin. "Never that."


End file.
